


in a garden, overgrown

by somethingmoresubtle



Series: massage au [2]
Category: The Exorcist (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Established Relationship, M/M, also an au in that most everyone lives in a nondescript chicagoan suburb bc research is for cowards, massage au, massage au SEQUEL what the heck, some secret garden ass shit, teenagers being teenagers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-15
Updated: 2019-01-15
Packaged: 2019-10-10 13:21:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17426666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somethingmoresubtle/pseuds/somethingmoresubtle
Summary: Tomas knows Marcus is up to something.He’s just not sure what the nun on the sun lounger has to do with it.





	in a garden, overgrown

**Author's Note:**

> ha ha ha, guess who's back, me, and also you if you're here
> 
> If you haven't read the first part you don't need to to understand this, but also I wrote like 18k abt M. Keane learning to let himself be happy, which if you like the exorcist, is probably your jam.
> 
> this is supposed to be FUN and STUPID so I will not get into the probably horrific complication of a catholic priest dating a layperson.

Marcus and his stupidly attractive hat (Tomas has very few regrets in his life (untrue, but it’s nice to pretend), but admitting to himself that he found Marcus’ English cowboy hat was attractive is one of them)-

(this is also untrue. He used the word rakish and had to hide his face under a pillow until the shame wore away.)

Marcus, among his many winning qualities is deeply distracting, even, or perhaps especially, in thought. His point was.

Marcus and his stupidly attractive hat were nowhere to be found this morning. Not that he’d slept over. Not yet. Although. He can imagine. Fresh sheets, and freckles so pale they’re almost indistinguishable from the canvas of his shoulders, and Marcus blushing and blushing and blushing until his _heart stops_.

“Oh my God.” Verity says, revolted.

He startles. “When did you get here?”

She turns in the wheelie desk chair menacingly. “I’ve been her the whole time, dumbass. You were just too busy perving out to notice.”

He attempts a look that he _knows_ worked, once upon a time, before he lost all threat credibility by dating(?) a priest. “Verity…”

She waves dismissively, already digging through the desk drawer. “I’m impressed you’re not denying it anymore, at least. Oh, here.” She brandishes a sparkly notebook that he is sure he threw out last time he saw it, violently, with great prejudice. She clicks her pen and grins like a teenage shithead. Sometimes he loves her so much it hurts. “Would you say this was a six or a seven on the thot-a-meter scale? Based on the dewy eyes I’m leaning towards a seven.”

This is not one of those times.

He lunges. Verity squawks, dodging his reach, but Tomas has the advantage of standing and also not being a 120-pound-adolescent. The chair, not created for advanced tactical maneuvers, tips over sending them both sprawling to the ground.

“Fuck, Tomas, do you eat fucking bricks?” Verity wheezes. “Get offa me.”

He snatches the book from her hand. “You’re grounded for eternity.”

“You’re not my real dad, idiot.”

“For which I thank the Lord every day. Andy has his hands full.” Verity ignores the hand he offers her and dusts herself off.

“Whatever. I don’t need the notebook.”

He shouldn’t ask why. He asks why. She shrugs, setting the chair upright and typing a URL into the web browser. “Because there’s a twitter, duh.”

It’s very hard to explain to their next walk-in why he’s sitting on a screaming teenage girl, demanding a password, but he does. He’s very persuasive.

Later, when he’s sent the walk-in on her way after dealing with a particularly aggravated pec minor, which she really needs to stretch out more regularly or she’s going to have _incredible_ upper back pain, stripped the sheets, and prepped the room for his next client, he finds himself drifting towards reception. For no particular reason.

“You’re gross and I hate you.”

“You’re fired.”

“If you fire me from being appropriately disgusted by your… whatever this is, Andy’ll kick you out of the guest house, and you’ll have to get your own place like a real adult.”

He raises a warning finger, shaking it with abuelaesque foreboding. “You know I hate it when you call it the guest house.”

“Sorry, the vagabond house?”

“Verity.”

“Yeah yeah, a standalone house separated by an acre blah blah guesthouse make.”

Tomas exhales heavily and thinks fondly towards high school graduation. “Thank you.” Verity makes a sound that is both an acknowledgment and highly amused as he turns back towards the window that faces the street.

“Looking for anything in particular there, Ortega?”

“Nope.”

“Not a certain… someone?”

“I have interests besides Marcus.” Tomas says, exasperated.

“Sure. There’s thinking about Father Handsome, dreaming about Father Hunk, _massaging_ Father-”

“I will pay you a dollar to shut up and never say those words in that combination ever again.”

“Oh?” She grins viciously. “How much would you pay for a _message_ from Father Hotstuff?”

The fight that ensues is both embarrassing and fraught with property damage. It’s harder to explain away his teenage receptionist who’s accidentally shoved her foot through the plaster while attempting to kick her way free form where Tomas had her pinned. They lost that customer. However, Tomas wins the fight, and the note, and Verity will be cleaning his bathroom until she’s done her undergrad. With a toothbrush.

Which all leads to Tomas, red-faced and puffing from running in the heat, pants liberally covered in plaster dust, to what he _thinks_ is a date.

At a convent.

His life probably couldn’t get weirder.

**Author's Note:**

> Verity: canoodling with father 🍆 💦
> 
> Tomas, crying: how are you doing that with your mouth
> 
> Feel very free to kudos or comment if you had a nice time. I sure did. Have a great day, killer.


End file.
